1715. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. Further on, there were impressions of bloody footsteps along the floor. Maybe later. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent.
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